Archive for November, 2013

Writing Numbers: November 2013

Welp, good thing I wasn’t really intending on doing NaNo this year, because I would have failed it.

32,373 words this month.

I was hoping, what with the unprecedented success of October, that I would be able to carry off 50k this month without much ado.


It’s true. I lay plans, gloating and smug, and the Powers that Be laugh at me. It’s enough to make a person want to just run pell-mell into traffic because really, being careful and planning doesn’t seem to work much better than that option.

It was actually all going relatively well until the 22nd when I went to the gym, tripped, fell on my face about 100 meters from the gym, and sprained my ankle.

I hopped my way back to the car, drove back to the house with much pain, and proceeded to throw all thoughts of writing out of my head for the remainder of the month what with first the pain and then cleaning/cooking/hosting T-day for more than ten people with a sprained ankle.

You could say that the elevator cable snapped and dropped me straight into no-writing-hell with no ceremony at speed.

Oh well.

30k isn’t anything to sneeze at, at least.

I go to Taiwan for a month on Dec 11th, so I really don’t see much writing happening before then, but we’ll see.



I dream of zombies

I’m on an autopsy table.

The steel is cold under my body,

I cannot move to get away; my corpse cannot warm the steel.

My mother bends over me, her face soft with concern. “We’re almost finished.”

I know what is coming next.

Dull pain unfurls from my stomach as she pulls out length after length of intestine, the sensation of soft tugging somehow worse than the pain.

My other organs have already been removed, my chest feels hollow, the emptiness an echoing sorrow.

She stitches me up again, finishing with a neat knot on my sternum. I touch it, gently, experimentally. It is sore to the touch, a spark of pain dissuading me from further exploration.

“There.” She smiles at me, loving and proud. She is the medium through which I’ve entered this world again, albeit a midwife this time. My life in undeath started by her removing that which she had once given me.

We move through life as if nothing is out of the ordinary. Just a normal mother and her unliving daughter.

There are no odd looks. No one stops me for an additional search at the airport. I trail along behind her, much as I’ve always done, observing, quiet, careful not to draw attention to myself.

After a while, I tire of being ignored. It is disconcerting.

People talk about me. Around me. Over me. But never to me.

It is a subtle ostracizing. There is not much to differentiate it from the usual superior disregard of adults for those of the younger generation. But I can see it in how their eyes dance around me, never meeting my gaze. They stare when they think I am not looking. They probe and pry, hinting at their willingness to hear all. What travails to venture back to the living from the land of the dead? What news from the other world? Which gods have we sacrificed to and what?

I frown, realizing that I, being the walking dead, will be caught forever in a limbo where I am not alive, not dead, and thus never to succeed at earning enough respect, never to be heard and heeded. No children will spill from my loins, elevating me into one of the adults. I will gain no cachet from becoming one of the ancestor spirits as I am clearly still here and obviously limited in what I can do.

My chest aches. I try not to touch it, but it is difficult not to worry at the sore spot.

I’ve never been good at refraining from poking barely healing wounds.

The knot is hidden by my clothing, but I know it is there. Will I carry it forever, a second symbol of birth?

I never used to like zombies in fiction, especially not the romances.

What could possibly be attractive about the undead? The walking flesh. The only-just-not-rotting?

Now that I am one of them, I want to scream my awareness to the world. I am sentient. I am not simply a bundle of ambulatory bones wrapped in a facade of skin.

I am who I am. I am who I was. I am who I will be.

Spirit resides within me, as it ever did.

But I remain silent. I do not speak. I do not shout. I do not even glare.

I am who I always was, and that is my mother’s daughter, child of thousands of years of weighty bonds.


Hello world!

I have to admit: I always like to start a blog with a post with the “Hello world!” title.

It’s cheery, and has this feeling of extroversion and optimism that I want to capture and keep. Begin as you mean to go on and all that.


This is my blog, to state the painfully obvious.

Or in other words, where the insanity lives, breeds like bunnies, and lies in wait for unsuspecting travelers.


Right. About that being non-creepy thing.

Consider this the Unknown Forest, where you are never sure if you’re going to meander through miles of boring trails or get chased by a dragon or fall into a bear trap.

I’ll try to keep it entertaining, but no promises.